


to see the forest for the trees

by sassysilmarils (ehleesabee)



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Community: marvel-cinekink, Female Character of Color, Gen, Hydra (Marvel), Kink Meme, Original Character(s), POV Original Character, POV Original Female Character, POV Outsider, Pre-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Prompt Fill
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-01
Updated: 2014-09-01
Packaged: 2018-02-15 15:41:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,180
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2234421
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ehleesabee/pseuds/sassysilmarils
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>“Because the horror of [history], is not that bad people do bad things — they always do. It's that good people do horrible things thinking they are doing something great."</i>  -Slavoj Žižek</p><p>It took Lorena a long time to understand that everything HYDRA had told her was a lie.</p><p>A fill for a marvel_cinekink prompt.</p>
            </blockquote>





	to see the forest for the trees

**Author's Note:**

> Response to a prompt at marvel_cinekink:
> 
> _So far, all the Hydra agents we've seen have been either people who just want to be on the winning side, or evil moustache twirling villains. But most people don't wake up and think "I'd like to swear eternal allegience to a secret evil organization today!" I want to know about the nameless underlings who decided (or were convinced) that HYDRA was for them, and how they justify it to themselves._

It took Lorena a long time to really understand HYDRA’s true nature.

When she joined HYDRA, she wasn’t innocent or idealistic by any means—an alcoholic father, two tours overseas, and a bullet to the left shoulder had taken care of _that_ business pretty quickly. 

But then that man, with his charming smile and infectious laugh, had given her something to believe in, at least for a little while. He bent down and dragged her off the rain soaked pavement in front of her favorite bar to pick fights in (because everyone should have one of those) and slapped her shoulder—thankfully the one that hadn’t had a bullet tear through it the year before—like a teammate. He enthusiastically complimented her hand-to-hand technique (“even more impressive when slightly drunk,” he insisted) and over a bottle of Jack told her about an organization that “wanted people like her.” 

She shot the man a sardonic look, and lifted her glass to him in a salute, “Fucked up warriors who hate just about everyone?” she asked. 

The young woman couldn’t hide her surprise when he clinked his glass against hers and replied, “Exactly.”  They drank together. 

“The idea,” the man told her a few drinks later, leaning in more closely than was probably necessary, “is to create a new, more secure world.  One where all dangers are gotten rid of before they even become threats.”  When Lorena stayed silent, he continued, “People are inherently shitty, man. I know you know that. What we’re trying to do is get some type of control over this mess, and make the world better for all the good people out there, like us.”

Lorena offered the man a narrow-eyed gaze but still didn’t speak, sorting all the new information through her mind. 

The man grabbed her shoulders and shook her gently for emphasis, “When we accomplish this, Lorena, we’ll never have to worry about another September 11th.  War will be a thing of the past; conflicts will be something only for history books.”  He paused and looked directly into her eyes, “No one will have to go through the shit you did, not ever again.  We’ll have a carefree, peaceful world, just imagine it.”  

The man finally released her, and picked up his glass again, staring into the amber liquid contemplatively.  “And when it happens, all of us in this organization will be the ones bringing in a whole new era of peace.  We’ll be the ones credited with it, Lorena.” 

“‘And God shall wipe away all tears from their eyes,’” the woman recited softly, after a moment, “‘and there shall be no more death, neither sorrow, nor crying, neither shall there be any more pain: for the former things are passed away.’”  (And damn if a Catholic upbringing didn’t stick with you forever).

The man smiled.  “Yes.”

16 hours later, her hangover headache finally having faded, Lorena called the number that the man had scribbled on the bar napkin before he left the night before. 

“Where do I sign up?” 

* * *

For the first few months, Lorena would say that she flourished in HYDRA. 

The team environment suited her well. It reminded her of her time in the military, where yes, you worked hard together, but you also became a unit, a family, together.

(Except for that one asshat who called her a dirty spic one time.  Lorena tackled him to the ground and left him with a black eye and a split lip before the rest of her team managed to wrestle them apart.  He was quickly transferred to another team; she was given a half-hearted scolding from the higher-ups and a bottle of good rum from her now-closer-than-ever teammates.  They had apparently debated for a while about whether to get a bottle of Mexican tequila, but had eventually settled for the less potentially offensive rum.)

They went on two-day long ops—where she didn’t sleep more than ten minutes and ate a couple of pieces of crappy jerky—but they also sat around for hours on-end in headquarters, saying they were filling out paperwork, when really they were playing online games of Cards Against Humanity against each other (Lorena realized very quickly that HYDRA employed some of the most filthy minded people she had ever met.  She loved it). 

All HYDRA field operatives sparred in the gym so roughly that the bruises lasted for days, but they also were the ones responsible for spiking the punch at the annual Christmas party. Most of that particular night was a blur for Lorena, but she’s _pretty_ sure she drunkenly made out with and equally shitfaced Brock Rumlow under the mistletoe, though neither no one ever mentioned it again to anyone, so she’s not _entirely_ sure if it actually happened.

But for the first time since leaving the military, Lorena felt like she had people again; people that she understood and that understood her. 

It was nice.

The woman knew people died in the ops her team participated in.  Killing people never made her feel _good_ , even though they were evil ( _lies, all lies_ , she would realize later, _most of them never did anything to anyone_ ), but she managed to reconcile the fatalities in her mind, knowing that she was getting rid of the world’s shitter elements, so that one day they could all enjoy a safer world. 

Then one day one of her teammates fucked up on an op.

Fucked up badly. 

The entire team had been summoned to Director Pierce’s office, and as they stood there, lined up behind their friend as he awaited judgment, the Director grabbed a gun and calmly shot him in the head. 

Lorena stared slack-jawed at the crumpled body (her friend’s body, one of her new _brothers_ ) on the ground, and then she moved her gaze back to the Director. She felt her breathing speed up, though she did what she could to keep from showing it.

“We do not tolerate failure, here,” he told them firmly.  Placing the gun back on the desk, “Do not make the mistake of thinking you’re irreplaceable. Jeopardize or threaten this organization’s overall goals, and we can find someone to take your place in ten minutes.” He paused and made eye contact with each of them.  Lorena felt utterly exposed, like the man was stripping the flesh and muscles from each individual bone in her body so he could take a glimpse at the soul inside. “HYDRA focuses on the forest, the big picture,” he said, “not the individual trees.”    

That was the first crack that Lorena saw HYDRA’s shiny, peace-emblazoned façade that she had come to believe in so firmly.

When they had been dismissed (the Director offered them all pleasant smiles as they filed out the door), she joined the rest of the team at a nearby bar to get “absolutely fucking destroyed.”

After her fourth shot, she realized that she didn’t know if she was getting drunk to mourn her murdered teammate or to try to drown the little flame of doubt that said murder had unexpectedly sparked in her. 


End file.
